


What a Catch, I'm the Best You'll Ever Have

by orphan_account



Series: 27 [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Cutting, M/M, Self-Harm, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:03:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4613946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete Wentz hurt the only person that cared about him, and now he turns to hurting the only person that's there.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	What a Catch, I'm the Best You'll Ever Have

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline is Folie à Deux era for the band, not really for personal lives, though. I mean this is fiction, so of course it isn't their personal lives. Some other songs from later record might get thrown in, but I'll make sure there is some kind of explanation for it.  
> Enjoy, and ultimately, stay strong. Life gets hard, but know that there is light even after the heaviest storm.

Tonight was quiet... _too quiet_  he thought. So quiet that every single moment of silence was another knife in the heart. See, there's the "Long day--relax time" quiet. The comfortable quiet with a loved one. The "I'm glad I have some alone time" quiet, and also the unforgiving "You're all alone, again. What are you going to do about it?" quiet. The latter is the kind that has been haunting Pete for a flat two weeks, since they got back to Illinois from ending the tour. He won't be seeing that therapist until the beginning of next week, leaving him with one more weekend of silence. Loneliness is a ruthless killer, and he let it have his house key.   
  
He fucked up, big time. He got into a fight with Patrick right before they set to go home--the very last person that was still talking to him--and the past two weeks he has literally talked to no one, but himself. He refuses to leave the house, no contact with the rest of the world, because he feels that he would be betraying Patrick if he went out and had a good time. Pete is just a hermit, he can't even remember the last time he turned on any lights, or opened a curtain.  
  
He decides it's time to try something different, but so familiar. He'd taken his two weeks at home off from his terrible habit that everyone wanted to cure. He lazily searches the house for something sharp. Pete regrets letting Patrick throw away his razor. A kitchen knife is the first thing he finds. That might work.   
  
He pushes the jeans off his right hip and draws the knife over it lightly, gliding across trying to work up the strength to break skin with the dull knife. It can cut through everything he puts on the cutting board, but when it comes to him really wanting it, it turns into a plastic-fucking-spoon.   
  
This isn't going to work, but he needs to break skin so time to start the search, again. Pete thought that the look for something sharp to cut his skin with would be depressing, that he would be in tears looking for the first thing that even looked slightly pointy. But no, it was like looking for a kitten to snuggle, peacefully inspecting every corner for that soft lovable creature that reminds you it's all okay. But it's not okay, this is the time where literally nothing is okay. The time where he wishes he had a voice, where he wishes he could just press speed-dial, and call Patrick, apologize, and say he never wants to get into a fight like that again. He feels paralyzed, but some sick instinct inside him tells him precisely what he should do to feel any form of power again. He knows from feelings like this so many times before.  
  
After looking in the most obvious places, he remembers a red box cutter in his dresser drawers, waiting to be used to open boxes, not to break skin. He travels to the bedroom where the box cutter is, and on his way something in his stomach sparks excitement. Like going on a roller-coaster for the first time, being able to scream as loud as you want, but with a purpose.   
  
He opens the drawer with purpose thinking  _I'm a new wave sharp something_. It doesn't take him long to dig to the bottom and find his prize. It's beautiful in a way he'd never thought a box cutter could be.  _How could I forget this was in here?_  He doesn't remember if there is any preparations to this, so he just pulls out the blade. Now the shiny weapon is showing like he's using the tool for the right reason. He pulls down the same hip on his jeans and repeats the process he tried earlier with the knife.  
  
Light drags of the corner blade, feels like scratching an itch that has been there all his life, only two weeks and it feels like he's never done it in his life. This is him doing something about it, after sulking for too long. The relief is minor, and he craves more after drawing no blood on his hip. The right hip is covered with light scratches, he decides to move to the left hip for more room-- _a clean slate_. He stops to stare at the mess he made on his right hip, and gives himself a minute to soak in what he just did. He can't help but think he just wants more.   
  
He fulfills that wish, and for once he doesn't affect anyone else, no one knows he's doing it this time. This is his, and no one else can touch it, and it hurts no other. Something he can have whenever he wants.  
  
Once clearing the clothing off his other hip he glides a hand over the smooth untouched skin, letting himself know this is the last time his skin will feel like this. He tries to cut his way to happiness, again, and so far so good. He can't tell way he is even doing this after getting so far, but at the same time he doesn't want to stop. This--he thinks--is _the happiest moment of his entire life_. Biting his lip at the blood that is now showing on the left, every little drop he wonders if it's going to slide down and drip.  _Cold_. He puts the box cutter down for a moment after covering his left hip with--in his opinion--t _he most beautiful red lines that have ever met his eyes_ , he always thought they looked so beautiful, and never understood why no one else did. He can't help himself when he rubs a finger over the blood and tastes it. Cold, copper--the usual blood taste--but this is cleaner than a paper cut, than biting your nails till they bleed, than anything that _just happens_.  
  
Excitement sparks again, and he can barely feel the sting on his sides when he pulls his tight jeans back into place. One quick thought of  _what the fuck is wrong with me?_  then the box cutter is back in his hand. He slides the piece that holds the razor blade in place out, and pulls out that shiny-silver-beauty. Surprised that there is no blood on the blade due to how he did the cuts. Not quite deep enough to draw blood immediately, and not quite slow enough to pick up any. Now carrying the lighter part of the tool, he sits down on his bed. Drawing up the sleeves on his hoodie--he decides that this is too special occasion to just do that--so unzipped jacket leaves him in a tee-shirt, both wrists and old scars now fully exposed.  
  
He kisses the razor blade in a quiet  _thank you_  and places it on his left wrist he doesn't cut, but presses it into his skin without breaking it, as if he was just preparing it for the shock of breaking seconds later. He does so as planned, and this is deeper than the ones on his hips, and the blood surfaces fast. So red,  _so so red_. He stares at his work, and just loves it in what some might say is sick, Hell, he'd say it was sick how he felt about hurting himself like this. But in a very moment like this, it is more than necessary, so it is more productive than anything else he could think of.  
  
The slices pick up speed but not depth. He wants to hurt, but he feels relief, suicide isn't even in the back of his mind right now. About twenty cuts later--leaving only about two inches of untouched skin to his elbow--and a sting that is barely felt Pete feels worn out, but in a perfect way. Not in the "I need to sleep and never wake up" way.  Blood over the "XXX" and rose on his wrist, Howl drips as well. He doesn't want to touch his right wrist, he vowed to himself a long time ago, that he will never touch that one so he can always remember what a clean perfect wrist feels like.  
  
He lays back ready to nap with the razor beside his hand.  
  
Pete's phone rings in his pocket, playing the opening of "G.I.N.A.S.F.S." - Patrick's ringtone. He fishes the phone and presses 'talk' after looking at the blood drying on his arm.   
  
"Pete, I'm so sorry about the fight. I should of said sorry sooner, I should of called and at least said we're alright or something. I'm so sorry, I've missed you so much. I was wrong to say any of that, it was so unlike me, I'm sorry." Patrick is quietly crying on the other end.  
  
"It's okay. I'm sorry too." Pete says peacefully.  
  
"What is wrong?" Patrick asks ending the question with a sniffle indicating his attention is to Pete and no one else.   
  
"Nothing, who said something was wrong?" Pete answers lazily.  
  
"Pete, I know you, you should be crying harder than I am. What did you do?"   
  
"Nothing...." Pete says quietly.  
  
"Shit, Pete, you didn't take anything, did you?"   
  
"No, I didn't take anything."  
  
"Than what happened, are you alright? You didn't cut yourself, again, did you?" Silence from Pete makes Patrick's stomach knot.   
  
"I'm sorry." Pete bursts into tears from hearing that word from his best friend, he knows it will haunt him forever. "I missed you so much, and I couldn't pick up the phone, I thought you never wanted to hear from me again. I'm so sorry, I just want to hear your voice." Patrick hangs up and Pete cries for the next ten minutes, until he hear his front door unlock and Patrick walking into bedroom, turning on the light. He rushes to Pete to wrap him in the tight hug he'd been missing for what felt like all his life.  
  
"I should of been here for you." Patrick picks up the razor blade beside Pete, and puts it in his pocket to dispose of as soon as possible.   
  
"It's not your fault, I should've called." Pete wipes the tears from his face.  
  
"It's alright. Lemme clean you up." Patrick heads to the bathroom and brings back the small first-aid kit from under the sink. He snaps it open, and pulls out peroxide, a wrap and Neosporin. He pours peroxide onto a cotton pad and dabs at the cuts on Pete's arm. Tears roll down Patrick's cheeks as he rubs on the Neosporin, and wraps Pete's arm in a bandage. Patrick kisses the bandage after taping off the end.  
  
"It's also...." Pete pushes the hips of his jeans to show the other ones.   
  
"I'm so sorry." Patrick whispers, wiping his nose on his arm.   
  
"It's not your fault, I shouldn't of done this in the first place. I was doing so good, but I was just sinking again...." Pete answers him quietly. Patrick repeats the clean-up process on Pete's hips, and then sits beside him.  
  
"Can you sing for me?" Pete asks.  
  
"Of course, what do you want me to sing?" Patrick asks brushing some fringe off of Pete's forehead.  
  
"Whatever is running in your head right now." Patrick starts to sing the song that is on mental repeat, something the guys had been working on, but couldn't see how it would fit onto the upcoming record:

  
"Don’t panic, no not yet. I know I’m the one you want to forget. Cue all the love to leave my heart, it’s time for me to fall apart. Now you’re gone, but I’ll be okay, your hot whiskey eyes have fanned the flames. Maybe I’ll burn a little brighter tonight, let the fire breathe me back to life. Baby, you were my picket fence, I miss missing you now and then. Chlorine kissed summer skin, I miss missing you now and then. Sometimes before it gets better, the darkness gets bigger. The person that you’d take a bullet for is behind the trigger. We’re fading fast, I miss missing you now and then. Making eyes at this husk around my heart, I see through you when we’re sitting in the dark. So give me your filth, make it rough. Let me, let me trash your love. I will sing to you every day, if it will take away the pain. Oh and I’ve heard you got it, got it so bad, 'cause I am the best you’ll never have. Baby, you were my picket fence, I miss missing you now and then. Chlorine kissed summer skin, I miss missing you now and then. Sometimes before it gets better, the darkness gets bigger. The person that you’d take a bullet for is behind the trigger. We’re fading fast, I miss missing you now and then. Now and then, now and then, now and then. Baby, you were my picket fence. I miss missing you now and then."

"I love you, 'Tricky." Pete whispers before falling asleep in Patrick's arms.

"I love you too, Pete." Patrick pecks him on the lips before drifting off to sleep.


End file.
